


Simple As This

by DeadWalker



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, M/M, Natasha means so much to me, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson is a Gift, The Avengers are in reality a bunch of five-year-olds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 14:59:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2511848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadWalker/pseuds/DeadWalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky might have changed, but some things remained the same: he knew in his very bones that Steve Rogers was something to be guarded with his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Simple As This

**Author's Note:**

> I have my Bucky feels and I need to let them out.
> 
> Title inspired by a [song](http://youtu.be/xXnIMKceHkk) by Jake Bugg. It's real pretty, go listen.

It goes like this.

When Steve was seven, his Ma told him that some folks don't get born with a heart that is whole. They only get a half, and the other piece is given to someone else. And when one heart is divided between two people, it only makes sense that the two halves seek to protect one another.

Steve had swung his legs over the edge of the chair – they didn't quite reach the floor, yet – and thought about this.

“How do I know who has the other half?” He had asked.

His Ma had smiled, and patted his thin chest. “You'll know.”

It begins when a boy throws a punch, so the bones of the small and fragile one don't get broken. Steve sits on the dusty street with bloody knuckles and a swelling eye, when a hand is offered to him.

“I'm James Buchanan Barnes, but you can call me Bucky,” says his savior, and sniffs. “Everyone calls me that.” His grin is gummy, with one of the front teeth missing. “Who're you?”

Steve is nothing but bony knees and the fierceness of a swelling storm. His pride is as battered as his bones, but he takes the hand offered to him. “Steve,” he says in a small voice as he hauls himself upright. “Steve Rogers.”

Call it destiny or say that the starts have shifted, doesn't really matter. What matters is that the two lives get entwined because they find the other half of the heart they carry inside them. Steve might not have believed his Ma's story before, but he looks the crooked grin of the boy before him, and he knows.

Years later, the story is still true.

“I'm with you 'til the end of the line,” Steve says. Decades have passed, but nothing has changed. “I'm not gonna fight you,” he says, and he doesn't. He drops the shield and takes the punches, because the other half of his heart is the one throwing them.

Minds forget, but the body remembers. The soldier dives after the sinking figure, and pulls him to the surface.

“Til the end, Stevie,” the one with the other half might have said, had he remembered how to form words.

\-------

It started innocently enough.

But, then again, most things did. Looking back on it, Steve would admit he could have connected the dots a little sooner. As it was, he only figured it all out when it all had already gotten somewhat out of hand.

Things had already taken a definite turn for the worse, because it wasn't every day you got to see Tony so pissed.

In any other circumstances, Steve might have thought it was downright funny. Tony may have been cocky as hell and twice as snarky but he had to pack all of that in a frame that was almost a head shorter than Steve's. It was almost comical.

The five-foot-nine hell on wheels finally came to a stop at the kitchen table where Steve was reading a dog-eared novel, and loomed over him.

Steve set down his book. “What is it now?” he asked before Tony had gotten a word out of his mouth.

“The problem, our fearless leader, is that boy of yours.”

“He's not my – ”

“I've had it up to _here,_ ” Tony cut in, waving a hand a foot above his head. “With Robocop.”

“Don't call him –“

“No,” Tony said, waggling his finger in the air. “You don't get to interrupt my monologue. You get to talk when I've had my rant, and this is long overdue.”

Steve let out a long breath, and bit the inside of his mouth. He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“Right, so. What do you make of this, hmm?” Tony pointed to his left eye.

Despite the effort to keep his face in check, Steve snorted. Hey, he wasn't perfect. “Nice shiner.”

“Yeah, very funny,” Tony scowled, and slumped down on the empty chair across from Steve's. “Courtesy of a certain James B. Barnes. He may look like a A-class boy toy, but he pulls these bitch-ass Russian assassin moves that stopped being funny about two minutes ago. He punched me square in the face when I accidentally surprised him.”

Steve raised a single eyebrow. “When?”

“Like two seconds ago, when I stepped out of the elevator.”

“Where is he now?”

“The hell should I know? He pulled one of those Romanoff moves where one moment he's there and then he suddenly isn't.” Tony shrugged.

Steve inspected the purple-and-black bruise curiously. “Did he punch you with the metal of the real hand?” At Tony's answering scowl, Steve just got up to get a bag of frozen peas from the freezer. He wrapped them in a kitchen towel and offered them up to Tony. “You should know better than to try sneak up on him.”

“I wasn't planning on it.”

“He doesn't like surprises.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “I am _aware._ And I wasn't trying to sneak up on him, I don't have a death wish.”

“Pepper might disagree. Here, put this on your eye before it swells shut.”

Tony went on like Steve hadn't even spoken, but he did take the peas and jammed the bag against the side of his face. “I came up to talk to you, and since I've told JARVIS not to announce my arrival, because certain 90-year-olds get aneurysms every time he speaks,” Tony raised his one visible eyebrow pointedly, “I just walked in. Like normal people.” Tony yanked the bag away and pointed at his rapidly swelling eye. “I didn't even make it three steps into your apartment before I got this.”

“I'm sorry, Tony.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Tony waved his hand dismissively. “But seriously, you gotta do something. It's all fun and games, up until he cracks someone's skull.”

Steve's guts tied themselves into knots. It wasn't like he was not aware of Bucky's recent and seemingly random bursts of violence.

It had been three weeks.

Three weeks since Steve had come home, after months of searching him, to find Bucky sitting on his couch, deathly still and blood spatters on his face. Not his, Bucky had said quietly when Steve had patted him down with shaking hands, looking for injuries.

“There were three of them outside your apartment,” he had said. “Hydra. They're gone now.” He had handed Steve a hand-drawn map of known Hydra bases on the Eastern coast, a knife soaked in blood – all the way up to its handle – and two handguns. “Can I stay?” He had mumbled quietly, not looking Steve in the eye.

Against common sense and better judgment, Steve had enveloped him in a hug that must have left bruises. “Yes, Bucky. _God_. Of course.”

After a minute, he had felt two hands hesitantly wrap around his shoulders. The fingers had bunched the fabric of his shirt, and held on fast.

They moved into the Avengers Tower, the glittering eyesore in the middle of Manhattan, and Tony welcomed them with open arms. As a first order of business, they had made Bucky go through a week-long deprogramming, led by scientists and psychiatrists Fury had personally vouched for.

The nightmares followed soon after. At night, Bucky prowled the hallways of their private floor in the Tower. During the day, he mostly sat still, and stared. Most of the time he didn't even bother to pretend he was staring out the window – he sat facing a wall, his gaze directed inwards.

Steve had gone to Bruce with his worries that Bucky might be losing himself in his own head. The good doctor had just shaken his head.

“Quite the opposite, Captain,” he'd said, and offered a kind smile. “He's finally finding himself.”

Bruce explained that although the programming had been eventually cracked, there was only so much they could do. Bucky would need to shed all the last shreds of his conditioning on his own, and it would not be easy. To build something back up again, sometimes it had to be torn down first.

“It's enough to make anyone lose himself every now and then. What he needs is time, and someone to be there for him when he comes out of it at the other end.”

Steve had just nodded numbly, and gone back to keep the vacant-eyed Bucky company.

Steve really did try to give Bucky all the support he needed, to the best of his abilities. He didn't push. He never asked about the seventy years he had spent as a weapon, as a Hydra's plaything. When Bucky wanted to tell him something, he listened, and he always let him decide what he wanted to do, no matter how inconsequential the matter.

Picking what he wanted for breakfast seemed to baffle him to no end, but Steve stood his ground.

Because Steve couldn't help himself, sometimes he talked about the years before the war, and when they were little. The years when they might have been starving, but they had each other.

Bucky rarely said anything.

“You remember that?” Steve would ask after a story, not expecting an answer.

Bucky didn't say a word – he might not have even been listening at all – and his gaze was miles away. But he never got up and left, either. He stayed by Steve's side, always close enough to be touching. His shoulder was pressed to Steve's side, his head on his shoulder, while his fingers traced the lines in Steve's sketchbook, open in his lap.

Steve counted that as a win, and always kept talking.

But this...volatile behavior. This was new.

He was worried Bucky might not be able to control himself. He thought the outbursts were a sign of the war he waged against himself, against his programming, and meant the Soldier was winning – he'd look his friend in the eye, and something cold and calculating was staring right back. Steve would look him in the eye, and see a storm brewing, black as night, and it worried him.

When Steve was finally able to shake himself back into reality, Tony was staring at him.

“You know none of this is your fault, Cap?” he said quietly. He looked almost _pitying_ , and Steve wanted to smash something.

“It kinda is. I brought him here.”

“It's not, and nobody blames you for anything.” Tony shifted forward to catch Steve's eye. “We're gonna figure this out, Steve.”

Steve just nodded numbly. “I'm gonna go talk to him, I'll fix it.”

He turned on his heels and walked out of the room before Tony could say anything else.

\-------

Tony's black eye was not the only incident they had during the next few weeks. There were others, and after every time Bucky tried to attack someone, got really fussy, or – as on one memorable occasion – actually _growled_ to a guy on the street that bumped into Steve, Steve got a little more worried.

There was that one morning Coulson tried to pay them a visit. Good thing Steve was usually a light sleeper.

As kids, before the war had changed everything, when Bucky had been the one to snore like a drunk and wouldn't be awaken by nothing short of a minor explosion, Steve's slumber was light as feather and dreams wispy thin. He used to wake up to groaning pipes and Bucky's sleepy snuffling.

When he couldn't fall asleep again, he had pretended he was keeping watch over them both as they lay on the narrow bed in Bucky's tiny bedroom. He had vowed never to let anything sneak up on them. He would keep Bucky safe.

The war had only made it harder to shake. Steve still slept like he was waiting for something, and it must have been the only reason he woke up when the mattress dipped, and a familiar weight leaned over him.

Steve cracked open one eye, and he blinked in the hazy light of the early morning hours. Bucky must have slipped into his bed again sometime in the night: he was bent over Steve, tense as a coiled snake.

“Stop right there.” Bucky's voice was like rusty daggers. “Don't take another step.”

It took a few hazy moments for Steve to realize he was talking to someone else.

“I'm not going to. Take it easy,” a voice answered from the doorway.

Bucky shifted, and Steve heard the plates in his metal arm whirring. “Back off.”

“Okay, okay.”

A rustle of fabric, like the person might have lifted his hands up to show they were unarmed.

“You're not gonna touch him.”

“I won't even try, I promise.”

Steve finally got both of his eyes open and managed to blearily focus on the source of the voice. He could just make out a neatly pressed suit and a pleasant smile. “Oh, hey, Coulson.”

“Morning, Captain Rogers,” Coulson said airily. He was standing in the doorway, hands raised and looking remarkably unconcerned. His eyes were fixed on Bucky's tense form. There was a phone in his right hand, but he was unarmed.

Bucky, on the other hand, was holding a curved knife with a blade as long as Steve's forearm.

Coulson just smiled reassuringly. “I was only sent up to ask you to join us downstairs, Captain. Fury has ordered a team meeting in twenty minutes. Stark told me you prefer JARVIS not to deliver messages for you two, and I'm not sure you got my calls.” He motioned with the phone.

_Calls?_

“Uh, I guess not?” He turned to look Bucky, and carefully pressed a hand at his waist. “Hey, it's okay. Coulson is a friend.”

Bucky didn't budge, just narrowed his eyes.

“I knocked,” Coulson said. He lowered his hands, but kept them in plain sight, keeping his posture as unthreatening as possible.

Steve sent a silent thanks to whatever training had made Coulson perceptive enough to read the situation correctly.

“I heard. Didn't give you permission to come in.” Bucky's lips curled, and he shifted until he was squarely between Steve and the doorway.

It was the most words he had spoken in days. If only it were in some other context, Steve thought.

“Hey now, okay,” Steve said as soothingly as he could. He curled a hand around Bucky's metal wrist. It wouldn't have kept him still if he wanted to break free, but it wasn't meant to be confining. Just a reminder. “Let's put the really, really sharp knives away, okay? We're all fine. We can get dressed and talk about all this in the kitchen, okay?”

Coulson took that as his cue to leave. He closed the door behind him with a silent nod, and Steve heard his footsteps retreating all the way to the kitchen.

After they heard the coffeemaker go on, Bucky deflated like a week-old balloon. The knife disappeared somewhere in the folds of his clothes – God only knew where he could hide something like that – and he curled back to Steve's side.

Steve stroked a hand through his hair. “Hey, you okay?”

Bucky didn't say anything for a while, just pressed even closer, shifting his knees up until he was curled into a tight ball. “I just don't like it,” he muttered finally.

“Like what?”

“I don't like 'em coming near you, when you sleep.”

“They're my friends, Bucky. They're your friends, too. They're not gonna hurt either of us.”

Bucky just buried his face deeper into Steve's side. “I still feel like throwing some of them off the balcony.” He sniffed. “Especially the loud one.”

“Everyone feels like throwing Tony off the balcony.”

Steve could actually feel Bucky's smile against his shoulder. “Can I?”

“No. He's annoying like ninety percent of the time, but he's a friend.” Steve paused. “And Pepper would be mad, and I really don't wanna upset her.”

“She's nice.”

“She is. And she seems to be really attached to Tony, so we gotta play nice.”

Bucky fell quiet again. He lifted one of his hands to trace absently at the patterns on Steve's cotton shirt as he seemed to mull something over. “Sorry I threatened your friend,” he finally said.

“Who? Coulson?” Steve asked. He brushed his thumb over Bucky's cheek. “Don't worry about it. I think he's actually used to it.” He paused to look over at his nightstand. “Did you do something to my phone, by the way?”

At least Bucky had the decency to look a little sheepish. “I threw it,” he said. Steve lifted his head just enough to see the pile of twisted plastic and shards of glass in the far corner of the room. He raised his eyebrows at Bucky. “And before that I squeezed it, a little.”

“With your left hand?”

“It was annoying.” Bucky turned to look at the remains of the smart phone. “I think I broke it.”

“Yeah, I think you might have. But Stark can get me a new one.”

“Sorry.”

“It's fine, Buck, you don't have to apologize.”

“No I mean –” Bucky shifted to look Steve in the eye from under the curtain of his hair. “I don't mean just for that, I also mean for not letting you sleep alone. Again.”

Steve tucked a lock of hair behind Bucky's ear. “It's alright. That's something you don't have to be sorry about, ever. Or ask permission.” Steve smiled. “We used to sleep in the same bed all the time when we were kids. It was mostly because we couldn't afford a second one, but I did it for other reasons, too.”

Bucky lifted his head to frown at him. “What reasons?”

“Well, I would've never admitted it to you then, but I had nightmares.” Steve shrugged just a little, as much as he could under Bucky's weight on him. “Silly things, really. I dreamed about Ma, about...” He took a deep breath, in and out. He could still almost taste those dreams, at the back of his throat, “... about losing you. I didn't wanna worry you with them, so every time I climbed into your bed instead of sleeping on the pillows on the floor, I always just said I was cold.” He smiled, just a little lopsidedly. “I don't think you ever believed me, but you never said anything.”

The fingers on Steve's chest had stilled. “That's funny, 'cause that's what I dream about, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“Losing you. About... about the time we fought.”

“The helicarrier?”

Bucky nodded. “About you falling, sinking into the water. I dive right after, but I'm not fast enough. I'm never fast enough.” His throat clicked as he swallowed. “You drown.”

Steve could feel the slight shivers running through Bucky's body – minute tremors that made his teeth chatter and the gears in the metal arm whine.

“Hey, shh, it's alright,” Steve said. He gathered Bucky close and smoothed his hands over his back, over and over. “It's okay, you were fast enough, you pulled me out.” He pressed his lips on Bucky's temple, just once. “You saved me.”

“Never feels like it. I always gotta come here and make sure you're still here. Still breathing.”

Steve chewed his lip. “Tell you what,” he finally said. “How 'bout we turn that room of yours into an office, and you sleep here from now on? You won't have to get up to see if I'm still okay. Okay?”

Bucky opened and closed his right fist for a long while, watching the tendons flexing, before answering. He finally nodded. “I'd like that.”

 

\-------

Then came the incident in the kitchen.

Steve supposed that by then, the others must have connected the dots. They had figured that all the occasions when Bucky got a little violent had one thing in common.

It was Steve.

Long story short, it happened because, in truth, the Tower was the home of over-grown children with too much time and too many resources. It had been snowing for a few days, and one afternoon, Tony decided he really, really wanted to build a snowman.

“Tony, really, you can't build a snowman _indoors_.”

“Well I sure as hell are not gonna go out there and freeze my balls out, it's not healthy. No pun intended, Capsicle, ha ha.”

Steve fixed him with a gaze he hoped was wholly unimpressed. “You do realize it's gonna melt in like two seconds flat?”

Tony flapped his hand dismissively. “I'm a genius, I'll figure something out.”

“Is Pepper really gonna be okay with this?”

“She's in Argentina, so technically, yes.” He threw open the balcony doors on the 12th floor, and stood in the doorway like a messiah. He took in the foot-deep drifts of snow around him, and planted his hands on his hips.“Dum-E!” He hollered, “JARVIS! I want all of this indoors!”

Steve could have sworn he heard the AI heave a sigh.

Clint showed up not twenty seconds after – he dropped right out of a loose panel in the ceiling. Steve suspected he had some sixth sense that could smell trouble, so he could be part of it even if he didn't start it. He looked at the heaps of snow being hauled indoors, and smiled like a fox in the hen house.

“SNOWFIGHT!” He yelled, scooped up a handful of cold slush, and hurled it at Tony. It landed with a wet _splat,_ and Tony turned around, goatee dripping wet and eyes wide.

“This means war, bird man!”

“Caw caw!” Clint screamed, before throwing another snowball and diving under the table.

The ensuing war lasted for a good forty minutes. Tony never got around to building the snowman, because everything he had had carried inside was now splattered around the kitchen. Small puddles and half-melted slush dappled the floor. Both Tony and Clint were soaking wet, and laughing like hyenas.

Steve had managed to avoid the chaos by retreating to sit on the counter dividing the kitchen from the common area. After a few snowballs almost hit him in the face, Steve managed to catch one from air.

All it took was bad timing. He stood up, and pulled his arm back to throw the snowball. He must have miscalculated, because the movement caused his feet to slip on the ice-slick surface, and he toppled backwards.

It might have all been okay if it weren't for the handful of ice that Tony threw right into Steve's face, right at that moment. It might also have been alright if Steve had actually had his wits about him, and hadn't decided to stand up on the counter. By the time he twisted to throw his arms out, it was too late. He crashed down on the floor at an awkward angle, and something gave a nasty crunch.

“Ow,” Steve said, and dropped the snowball.

Tony and Clint's little battle came to an abrupt halt.

“Oh my God,” Tony squeaked, “He's gonna kill me. I'm a dead man.”

“Shut up Tony,” Clint hissed. He was eyeing all the exits like he expected he would need an out. “Shut up he's gonna _hear_ us.”

Tony kept babbling. “He doesn't need to hear, he has like a sixth sense, I swear, he'll just _know_.” He swallowed. “I'm gonna die,” he repeated. “I broke Steve, I'm gonna die.”

“I'm not gonna kill anybody,” Steve interjected. "It's not even that bad, I'm _fine_."

“He doesn't mean you, pal,” Clint said. “He means –”

The thump of furious footsteps and the banging of a door cut his words short. They were the only warning they got before a wild-eyed Bucky burst in, feet bare, hair a mussed mess. He looked like he had rolled off the sparring mat about three seconds ago.

Natasha followed after him, hair on a loose bun and a smirk on her lips. She looked like she had just walked in on the most entertaining reality show ever. She sat down on a vacant and miraculously dry kitchen chair, and leaned back to watch.

Bucky's gaze swept the whole room before zeroing in on Steve. His eyes narrowed, and three people swallowed audibly. Natasha just smiled.

“Uh,” Steve said from where he was sprawled on the floor, cradling his left arm.

Come to think of it now, the arm kinda felt like it might have been broken.

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky ground out.

There weren't a lot of things that made the hair at the back of Steve's neck rise, but that tone of voice from Bucky was on the top of that short list.

He swallowed.

“Bucky –”

“What. The actual. Fuck.”

“I can explain.”

“You sure as hell are going to,” Bucky growled as he took a step closer. He eyed the other two men in the room.

Tony and Barton had gone stock still, still standing off to the side, each holding a melting snowball in their hands. Of the two, Tony seemed to be the one to appreciate the full severity of the situation. His eyes swung wildly from Steve's twisted arm to Bucky's face and back. He had also gone very, very pale.

“Who did this?” Bucky asked, his voice dripping ice. He pointed in Steve's general direction.

Clint hurriedly dropped the lump of snow in his hands. Tony pointed at Clint, Clint pointed at Steve. Both looked like they were trying very hard to disappear.

“Barnes,” Tony tried again. “Steve's fine, we can get Bruce to take a look at his arm and –”

“Out.” Bucky's voice cut through Tony's blabbering and his mouth snapped shut.

“But –”

“ _Now_.”

Steve had never seen two grown men beat such a hasty retreat.

Before she left, there was this strange look shared between Bucky and Natasha that Steve couldn't quite decipher. She got out of her seat, ever so graceful, and raised her eyebrow at Bucky. “Вы должны дать ему понять, насколько он для вас значит, _”_ she said quietly.

Bucky just looked at her helplessly. Natasha pursed her mouth, pressing into a hard line, and turned on her heels. She slipped out of the room on silent feet.

Steve didn't have time to ask what the hell had just happened before Bucky turned back Steve, still sprawled on the floor. He winced. “Bucky, I'm fine, really, I can explain.”

“Is it broken?”

“I, uh, I guess so,” Steve said, “But it'll heal in like a day. Super soldier serum, remember? I just need to set it right.”

That seemed to throw Bucky off, for some reason. He was quiet for so long Steve was afraid he was having one of his episodes again.

“Bucky?” He asked hesitantly.

Bucky shook his head, like trying to clear off cobwebs, and he blinked. “I– I thought you were smaller.”

“Yeah, Buck. I used to be.”

“I....” he hesitated again. Swallowed audibly. Then he leaned over to run his hands over Steve's arms. Steve winced as he hit the spot where the bone must have fractured, and Bucky pulled his hands away. “I thought you were smaller,” he repeated.

Steve shifted until he was able to prop himself up on his uninjured elbow. “It's okay. I'm okay, really. I'm not made of glass anymore. Remember?”

“Gotta keep you safe,” he said, eyes distant. Like he was watching something a long way – or a long time – ago. "'Keep little Stevie out of trouble,' she said. I promised."

"Who?"

"Your Ma."

"Oh."

“Rattling lungs and bones like glass. You broke so easily," Bucky murmured. He sounded like he was a thousand miles away. “I pulled you out of all those fights. I protected you." His eyebrows knitted together. "But now you don't... need me. You're okay.”

Steve reached out and took a hold of the hand closest to him – the metal one – and gripped it tight. “I'll always need you, ninety pounds soaking wet or not. You know that, right?”

Bucky looked at him with something raw and naked in his eyes, but squeezed his hand back. "Right."

That night, he slept with that hand of Steve's pressed to his chest.

\-------

Two days later, Steve's arm was already as good as new.

He was still worried about Bucky but for the first time in a long, long time, everything seemed like it could actually be alright. Not perfect, but alright.

Bucky was getting better.

On a quiet evening when the rest of the team seemed to had found something else to keep the occupied, Steve drifted over to the bar in the corner of the Town's common area, and sat himself down with a bottle of beer. The alcohol didn't actually do anything, but it was a comforting habit.

He sipped at the drink and just watched the others.

Mostly, he was watching Bucky. He was sitting on the other side of the common area, tucked on the couch between Bruce and Clint, both of them with their noses buried in paperback novels. The TV was turned on, just a quiet murmur in the background.

At Bucky's feet, Natasha sat cross-legged on the floor, tapping her phone while Bucky was seemingly engrossed in an attempt to braid her hair. Every now and then she'd murmur something, and Bucky would adjust his hands. Steve could just about pick out a word here and there; most of them in Russian.

For the most part, Bucky looked calm. Almost peaceful.

It wasn't constant, by any means. Ever so often a frown creased his brow, tensing his shoulders and turning his movements jerky. Bucky would go rigid like a steel rod. His eyes glazed over, and they clearly were no longer looking at anything in this world. He seemed to lose himself, and not quite know how to come back.

Whenever this happened, the trio around him seemed to pick up on it in a heartbeat.

Bucky went blank, and without taking her eyes off the phone, Natasha flicked Bucky's bare feet with her fingers. “I said french braid, _golubchik,_ not regular one.”

Beside him, Bruce placed a finger between the pages of his novel to save the place, and leaned over. “I'm gonna make some tea.” He rested a light hand on Bucky's shoulder, patting gently. “I'm gonna make you a cup, Barnes, okay?”

On his other side, Clint leaned a little heavier on Bucky's side. It was a subtle move that Steve would have missed had he not been looking so closely.

Bucky seemed to always come back to himself in stages, like emerging from under water. A slow blink, then another. “Yeah,” he answered to Natasha, and resumed the braiding. “And I'd– I'd like that, “ he said to Bruce. “Thank you.”

Another pat on the arm from the doctor, and a smile from Clint, and things went on as normal. A short while later, he caught a glimpse of Natasha offering a hand to Bucky, and Bucky clasping it in his right one, tightly.

There were times when Steve couldn't even begin to express the gratitude he felt towards his friends for the unquestioning way they seemed to care for Bucky. Bucky had tried to kill most of them, after all, so it wasn't something he could take for granted. Times like these ranked quite high on that list.

“Hey,” a voice said at his elbow.

Steve turned to see Sam standing beside him, elbows propped on the counter. “Hey. How's the wing upgrade project going?”

Sam only shrugged. “It's going. Stark's in his crazy mode. He threw me out.” Steve's gaze returned to the group on the couch, and Sam's followed. “Barnes seems to be finally settling in nicely,” he added.

“Yeah. He is.”

After a minute, he said very softly: “You look happier than I've ever seen you, man." At Steve's questioning look, Sam went on. “It's him, isn't it?” He nodded towards Bucky.

Steve's face must have softened at that, because he could see the mirroring look on Sam's face. If anything, he looked understanding. Steve couldn't find his voice, so he gave Sam a tiny nod.

Sam clicked his tongue. “Should've known.”

“How come?”

“I've seen that look before,” he said. It was a warm smile, but its edges were etched with sadness. “I sometimes caught Riley looking at me with that same exact expression.”

“I'm just – ” Steve started. His voice failed him, and he had to work to find it again. “I'm so happy that Bucky's here. That he's here with me. With us.”

“Yeah. I'm glad we found him.” Sam's mouth quirked. “Or that he found you.”

“I can't ever thank you enough for helping me look for him, Sam, and –” he swept his hand around, “everything. All of this.”

Sam shoulder bumped him lightly. “It's Stark you should be thanking about all the glitter and glory around here. The rest of it?” He shrugged. “Any time, man.”

“I don't know what I'd do without you.” Sam just smiled his 'Don't I know it' smile, and Steve went on. “And I'm really sorry.”

“About what?”

“About Riley.”

The smile slid off Sam's face, but he nudged Steve again with his shoulder. “Don't be. Not your fault. It's just how the world works, sometimes.” His gaze traveled back to Bucky, now murmuring something to Clint in what sounded like some other Eastern European language as he worked on Natasha's braid. “Not everybody gets their second chance, but you did. You better hold on to it.”

Steve nodded. “I'll try.”

After a few quiet minutes, Bucky tied Natasha's hair with a hairband, and got up. He came to lean on the counter across from Steve. He said something in Russian, and quirked an eyebrow.

Steve had only time to look momentarily confused before Natasha appeared by his side.

“In English, _dorogoy_ ,” she said, tapping his elbow.

Bucky frowned. “Oh, uh. Right. Wanna go spar, Steve?”

“Sure.”

Bucky actually beamed happily at that. Honest to God _grinned_ , and Steve couldn't help but to smile back. “Race you to the gym?”

Natasha tugged at Bucky's neck, and he bent down dutifully so she could plant a soft kiss on his forehead. “Remember to play nice.” She released Bucky, and turned to give Steve a peck on the cheek, too. “Off you go, fellas. Don't break anything.”

“No, ma'am,” they both answered in unison, and raced off.

Before the doors of the elevator closed behind them, Steve heard Sam's voice: “Do I get one, too?”

“You get one when you deserve it,” Natasha answered airily, but there was a smile in her voice.

Clint gave a loud snort from the couch.

\-------

Steve should have known that eventually, he would give Bucky a real reason for concern.

He'd been doing it it whole life, after all. Being a source of concern and the thing fraying Bucky's nerves had been a major part of Steve's existence. The thing was, though, that the post-serum Steve Rogers should not have been such a cause for worry.

It all happened during a standard mission.

It shouldn't have been anything complicated: there were no super villains or plans to overthrow the entire planet Earth. Nobody wanted to destroy entire continents this time, not exactly. Just a small part of New York.

They climbed out of the sewers – big, nasty, and definitely out of this world. Thor said they looked like they might be of Asgardian origin and must have come through a rip somewhere in the fabric of space. Steve wasn't sure, he stopped listening after the words “extraterrestrial” and “insect-like predators.” He only needed to know how to get rid of them.

It was definitely unusual and dangerous for sure, but for the Avengers, danger was an average Tuesday morning. Things shouldn't have turned out the way they did.

The entire team was dropped a few blocks from the place the creatures had crawled out of, a desolate industrial area in the outskirts Queens. Tony was having the time of his life blasting the things from up high, high-fiving Sam as he swooped around to give the insect-like things solid kicks in the head. The rest of the team took them on face-to-face.

At some point, Steve turned around in the heat of battle, and realized he had no idea where the rest of his team was. The ear piece he tapped in his ear gave a sad sizzle, and remained quiet. One of the creatures had spat something toxic on Steve, something he wasn't quite fast enough to dodge, and splattered on the side of his face. He managed to wipe most of it off – luckily, cause it burned like a bitch, too – but the comm was busted.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, to no one in particular.

He didn't have long to worry how the others were doing. There was a noise, just a rustle behind him, and just as suddenly a searing pain at the back of his head. Something sharp tore through his side. The hand he pressed to his ribs came out bloody.

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” he said again. It was that kind of situation.

 _I must be getting sloppy_ , he thought just before his vision blacked out. Then, with a tinge of honest to god dread: _Oh God, Bucky is gonna be so pissed._

_\-------_

He came to some place that definitely wasn't the dirty back alley he had slumped down at.

He blinked once, twice. A white room, but one that remained blurry. If he breathed deeply enough, he could feel bandages wrapped around his middle, and a searing pain at his side. His head swam.

He turned his head, and found someone at his bedside.

“Hey, you,”Steve croaked in a voice that sounded nothing like him, and Bucky's head whipped up.

“ _Steve_.”

 _Why does he look so worried?_ Steve thought, _I'm fine, really_.

He'd come out of fights like this before, kicking and screaming. Bucky should have remembered that.

Steve lifted his hand and felt blindly until he found Bucky's hand, resting on the covers. He threaded their fingers together. No words would come out of his throat, dry and raw as it was, but he clasped the hand in his as reassuringly as he only knew how.

Okay, so maybe he wasn't quite alright, after all.

Just before the darkness swallowed him again, he thought he heard Bucky speak. “Steve, please.” His voice sounded small, and _scared_. A weight settled on Steve's chest and hair tickled his cheek – Bucky must have lain his head on the covers, just over Steve's heart. “Please don't go where I can't follow.”

\-------

When Steve woke up again, it was to sunlight in his eyes and tuneless humming in his ears.

He craned his neck to blink groggily at the person by his side.

“On your right, this time,” Sam said from the chair he had dragged by the bed. His crooked grin showed the small gap between his front teeth. “But you get the drift.”

Steve cracked a smile. “Hey,” he mumbled. His tongue felt clumsy in his mouth. He lifted his arm to inspect the IV tube snaking to the drip by the bed. Machines bleeped, and something was whirring behind him. His head felt like it was stuffed full of cotton, mind sluggish like swimming in tar. He searched the room, blinking.

Sam answered his question before he could say anything. “Barnes is sleeping in the room next door. I practically had to manhandle him to leave your side and take a nap.”

Steve made a noise that he tried to make sound like “idiot” but that came out a little warbled. He swallowed and tried again. “'S 'cause he's a stubborn jerk. How long was I out?”

“You mean after the time you woke up for two minutes and passed out again, or in total?”

_Shit._

“In total.”

“Three days.”

Steve pressed his eyes closed. “Shit.”

“Yeah. You really scared us there, Captain.”

“He must have freaked out.”

“Barnes? Yeah. I thought we'd have to sedate him to keep him from tearing the whole building apart.”

“He gets a little fussy, sometimes.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “A little? 'Murderously protective' might be a more accurate description. He was this close – “ Sam held up his hand, “– to hissing at the nurses.” He shook his head, and turned on his seat to tap the machines behind Steve's bed. Pressing a nurse call button, probably. “Man, I was sure he was gonna tear the arm off the one who wasn't too concerned about handling you with kid gloves while taking blood samples.”

A sudden thought snaked cold tendrils into Steve's stomach. He had to swallow a few times around the dryness in his throat. “He didn't– did he hurt anyone?”

“Ah, nah, man,” Sam said. “Nothing like that. Just acted a little spooky, sent a few junior doctors running.” He quirked a smile. “Apparently a lot of folks around here are real curious about that super serum of yours, and what could have knocked you out so cold. Apparently it was whatever venom that alien thing injected you with, but they weren't sure.”

“I'm guessing they aren't that curious any more?”

“They all found somewhere else to be real suddenly after they figured out the cure.”

A noise at the door made both of them glance up. Bucky was standing at the doorway, eyes wide and looking so worried his eyebrows threatened to get permanently knit together. He was dressed in a too large hoodie that looked like one of Steve's, and both of his arms were wrapped around his middle.

He looked small, and like he hadn't seen sleep or real food in weeks.

His mouth worked, but no words came out for a long while. “Steve?” He said eventually. It was so quiet and trembled so bad Steve probably wouldn't have heard it without his enhanced hearing.

“Hey, Buck.”

Next thing he knew, Bucky had taken two long strides into the room, and nearly collapsed onto him. He was careful to curl on Steve's good side. Two arms wrapped around him and Bucky neatly folded himself into the space left on the bed – an impressive task, really, since it wasn't built for two grown men. Bucky squeezed tightly and buried his face in the crook of Steve's neck.

He mumbled something into Steve's shirt, words muffled by how his face was mashed into it.

“What was that?” Steve asked. He wound his own arms around the slightly shaking form on top of him, fingers carding through Bucky's hair.

Bucky lifted his head just a fraction. “I wuz worried,” he repeated.

Steve let out a sigh that ruffled the strands of hair on his face. “Yeah, I know, but I'm fine now.”

“You _idiot_.”

Sam coughed lightly. “I'm gonna -” he gestured towards the door, “- go see that Stark's not harassing the staff. And get you something to eat, both of you.” He rested a hand on Steve's arm before getting up. “Good to have you back, man,” he said before quietly slipping out of the room.

Steve turned his attention back to Bucky. He smelled like Steve's shampoo. “You're really heavy, you know.”

“Shaddup,” Bucky mumbled. “You make for a shitty pillow.”

Steve gave Bucky's shoulder a half-hearted shove. “Jerk,” he retorted, “I wasn't the one to crawl on top of me.”

“I had to make sure you were breathing.”

“That's what the machines are for, Bucky.”

“Don't trust 'em,” he mumbled.

“You don't trust anyone. I heard you've been scaring the nurses.” Bucky just snorted. “You can't hiss at people.”

“And you shouldn't be a punk and do the stupid shit you do and get hurt.”

The sigh Steve heaved made his side twinge. “You gotta find something you wanna do, Buck, something besides worrying about me. A purpose.” The smile felt a little wobbly on Steve's face. “A hobby, maybe. Can't keep running after me forever.”

“My life has a purpose,” Bucky said, tucking hair out of his face to he could look Steve in the eye. “His name is Steven Grant Rogers.”

“That's a dumb purpose.”

Bucky sniffed. “Never said I was smart.”

Steve took a gentle hold of Bucky's jaw so he could tip his face closer. Without really thinking about it, he kissed him lightly.

It wasn't until later that Steve realized he had kissed Bucky right on the mouth. It was even later that he realized Bucky had kissed him right back.

\-------

When Steve was discharged from the hospital, he got to go back to the Tower on the condition that he got plenty of rest. The nurse who delivered the news turned to Bucky as she jotted something down in her clipboard.

“And you're the husband, correct?” She handed him the instructions for aftercare. “And remember, nothing taxing for a few days. That includes any activities in the bedroom.”

Steve blushed so fiercely he couldn't get a word out, just stared at his shoes. Tony let out a raucous snort from the chair he was sitting on in the corner, and everyone else tried to pretend something else in the room had suddenly become infinitely more interesting.

Bucky said nothing, but nodded and took the folder. “You ready?” He asked Steve, and held out his hand.

Steve didn't look back, but judging from the light slap, Sam had gotten his hands on Tony. “Ow! Hey! You know I'm all for free love. Ow!”

Steve smiled to himself. _To hell with it_ , he thought, and looped an arm around Bucky's waist.

\-------

Back in their apartment, Bucky turned to look Steve lying beside him on the bed, dozing off his pain medication. Steve didn't actually see it - his eyes were closed - but he could feel the gaze. Bucky was holding one of Steve's old sketchbooks in his hands, pages and pages of it filled with pictures of Bucky. 

He traced the graphite lines with the tips of his fingers. “You must've loved me a lot,” he said.

Steve was quiet for a heartbeat. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I did. I do.”

He opened his eyes to see Bucky still staring at him. The look on his face was hesitant. Uncertain. “Even now?”

Steve smoothed his hand down Bucky's side. He reached out to press his other palm on Bucky's cheek. “More than ever.”

He tugged until he got Bucky to lean down, and kissed the corner of his mouth, just once. That side that turned down just a little when he was worrying.

As of now, it was firmly turned downwards.

“Why?” He didn't seem doubtful, just honestly curious.

Steve shrugged. “Beats me, but here we are.” He grinned at the frown on Bucky's face. “And you still have half of this, remember?” He took a hold of Bucky's flesh and blood hand, and pressed it on his chest, right above his heart.

The frown faltered. Bucky smiled hesitantly. “You still believe that story?”

“You remember that?”

“I think they tried to make me forget. They –” Bucky blinked slowly, like he was trying to clear his head. “They tried to scrub you out, all of that, but they couldn't. Your Ma used to say that, didn't she?”

“Yeah. She used to say we shared a heart.”

Bucky tapped his fingers on Steve's chest. “I think she used to say that because your used to be so little, your heart barely kept you alive. I remember telling my own Ma that it didn't matter you had a heart that was so little. You could use mine.” He flattened his palm on Steve's steady pulse. “Guess you wouldn't need it now.”

"Hey, now. We both know that's nonsense."

"How's that?"

Steve grinned, and trapped Bucky's hand between his own hand and his chest. "I could use a little piece of yours. I gave you all of mine over seventy years ago."

All Steve got for an answer was a soft smile.

**Author's Note:**

> “Вы должны дать ему понять, насколько он для вас значит" = "You should let him know how much he means to you"
> 
> Couple of things:
> 
> First, I hope the Google crap translator wasn't lying to me too much.
> 
> Secondly, comments and kudos make my day. I know I'm super sappy but it's how I roll. I really do appreciate if people like it.
> 
> And thirdly, I know Bucky is a lethal assassin, but I look at him in a way _he_ would look at post-serum Steve: strong like a bull and twice as deadly, but he would still treat him like a little jellybean, very tiny, must be protected at all costs. Just humor me here, okay.


End file.
